


Chaos Theory

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: CSI: Miami, The Life Before This (1999)
Genre: Dark, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-04
Updated: 2006-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything is this close to being something else."<br/>—The Life Before This</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos Theory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tarlanx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tarlanx).



> Written as part of Isis's [Hewligan Fest](http://sga-6degrees.livejournal.com/28277.html).

> "Everything is _this_ close to being something else."  
>  —The Life Before This

**I.**

"What the fuck is that supposed to be?"

Nick's been standing in front of the fountain/modern artwork/whatever-the-fuck-it-is, wondering that himself. He turns to face the guy who'd spoken—an American, he can tell, with the kind of drawl that makes him think of cowboys and the Wild West. For a second he thinks he sees something like cold appraisal in the hazel eyes as they flick over him, but it's gone so fast he decides he imagined it.

"According to the plaque, it's called 'The Teslatron.' Whatever that means." He shrugs.

The guy grins. "Well, it's not like I'm here for the art," he says, laughing, and then he runs a hand through his dark, unruly hair. "You know which way to the tables?"

"C'mon." Nick jerks his head toward the casino entrance. "I'll show you. I was going to check out the slots anyway. I'm Nick, by the way."

"Mike." The guy holds out his hand and Nick takes it. The grip is firm, strong, and Mike holds on just a moment too long, his smile sliding into something a little more suggestive before he lets go.

Nick keeps his own smile to himself, at least until he turns away. "Good to meet you, Mike," he says, and he means it.

He wakes alone in the luxurious King-sized bed, pleasantly sore and still smiling. He orders room service and scribbles an unintelligible signature on the bill; they'd been too busy—and maybe a little too drunk—for complete introductions the night before, and he has no idea what Mike's last name is. He adds a generous tip, though, because Mike can obviously afford it.

After breakfast he takes a long, hot shower. Mike still hasn't shown up by the time he's done so he leaves a note on the desk, his sloppy handwriting looking out of place on the elegant hotel stationery:

_Thanks for a great night._

He doesn't bother signing his name and he's not really surprised when he doesn't bump into Mike again.

**-=| end |=-**

**II.**

A blonde—potentially attractive, if not for the fact that she's wearing way too much makeup—slides out of her seat at one of the ten-dollar blackjack tables and heads toward the galleria. Nick's about to slide into her vacated space next to a dark-haired guy in a bad shirt when Alice tugs on his arm.

"I'm hungry," she says, shooting him the smile that he can never resist. "Let's get something to eat before we start playing."

Dinner at 17 Noir is incredible, and between the cozy candlelit table and the two excellent bottles of chardonnay they don't end up hitting the tables until the following morning, but Nick doesn't really care.

**-=| end |=-**

**III.**

Nick's first thought is that the guy is watching him for tells, but instead of getting better his decisions get worse the more intently he focuses on Nick—on Nick's hands in particular. It isn't until the guy hits on eighteen that the penny drops; he isn't watching Nick, he's _checking Nick out_. The realization makes Nick pause and blink, makes him stand when he means to hit, and then he's losing too, his concentration shot to hell by the images his imagination's dreamed up.

His imagination doesn't know the half of it, he thinks later, when he's plastered up against the glass wall of the elevator, Niagara Falls roaring behind him, and the guy ("I'm Mike," he'd said, the name breathed against Nick's throat as they stumbled into the elevator) is sucking his dick with a mouth that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Nick's got his eyes closed, his fingers tangled in Mike's artfully mussed hair, and he's just about to come when the elevator dings and he hears the soft hydraulic _whoosh_ of the doors sliding open.

Mike hums and Nick comes despite himself, opening his eyes just in time to see the group of senior citizens standing there, slack-jawed in shock, before the doors slide closed and the elevator starts to move again.

Nick's heart finally starts beating again as Mike tucks him away then stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. They look at each other and Nick can feel the laughter bubbling up, buoyed by the shot of adrenaline; he's still giggling when the doors open and Mike leads him to one of the swankiest suites in the place: one with a one-eighty view and a huge oval tub that lets Nick demonstrate his ability to hold his breath under water for nearly three minutes.

~ * ~ * ~

Nick agrees to go golfing with Mike at Cedar Brae if Mike will come skiing at Blue Mountain with him.

The slopes are great, but the evenings in front of the fireplace in their room are better, Mike's cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling as they lie, stretched out on the couch, making out like teenagers.

**A.**

Mike tries to convince Nick to move to Miami, but Nick argues that Canada's cheaper than the U.S., and he's already got a nice place in Toronto. With the careful application of blowjobs on Nick's part Mike eventually caves.

When winter hits, Mike complains about the cold and the snow, but Nick notices he stops as soon as Nick pulls him into bed, offering to "warm him up." Nick thinks there's nothing as beautiful as Mike spread out on their bed, his body golden in the light of the fire. Mike says there's nothing as beautiful as Nick's mouth.

**1.**

It's supposed to be a simple job, a quick in-and-out and they'll be a few grand richer. The sawed-off is Kevin's bright idea, and Nick could probably stop him, could walk out and leave Kevin to deal with the fallout as he and Mike ride off into the sunset, but he doesn't.

Mike's pissed as hell when they hit the car with the money and the hardware: "I thought I said no guns!"

Nick just shrugs and hangs on as Mike revs the engine and they peel out.

~ * ~ * ~

Nick's only got a handful of coins left when Mike comes over to stand next to him.

"I'm tapped out," Mike announces, his hand resting heavy on Nick's shoulder and his sleeve tickling the back of Nick's neck, "and it's getting late. Time to go home."

Nick shrugs a little and feeds his last five toonies into the poker machine. He knows without looking that Mike is frowning at him, so he says, "One last hand and then I'm tapped out, too."

Mike makes an irritated noise, but Nick ignores it, watching as the machine deals his hand: ace, King, Queen and ten of hearts, and a four of clubs. Nick slaps the button under the unwanted card and Mike's grip tightens to the point of painful, but Nick's already hit the "deal" button. He knows he's broken one of Mike's cardinal rules of poker—never draw to an inside straight—but it's kind of a compulsion with him; he finds it impossible _not_ to do, even if he knows it's going to result in a fight when they get home.

"What the fuck do you—" Mike starts, his voice a low, angry hiss, but the rest of what he's saying is drowned out by the bells and sirens as Nick beats the odds.

The royal flush pays out at eight hundred to one, his ten dollars becoming eight thousand in the space of a single breath.

He feels Mike's hand slide down from his shoulder to his bicep and this time the tight squeeze isn't a warning but the precursor to a jubilant hug. Mike's smile is brilliant, obscuring the rest of the world, and for a second Nick thinks Mike might even close the few inches that separate them and kiss him. Then the change girl shows up to give him the rest of his payout, and Mike pulls back and slips into the part of "friend," his body language shifting almost imperceptibly.

His eyes, though, tell Nick that when they get home they'll be celebrating.

~ * ~ * ~

Maybe it's because Mike comes home reeking of perfume, or because he's gambled away their rent money (again). Maybe it's over Kevin hanging out at the apartment too often when Mike's not home, or over the fact that Nick _still_ doesn't have a job.

In the end it doesn't matter what starts it.

What matters is that Mike gets in a lucky punch and Nick is out cold. He comes to with Mike fucking him, hard and without even his usual perfunctory consideration. Nick doesn't fight him, but as soon as Mike's done Nick goes into the bathroom and comes out with the revolver Kevin was playing with earlier.

**-=| end |=-**

**2.**

Nick doesn't notice at first that Kevin's stopped calling. It's only when Mike works doubles three days in a row, leaving Nick stuck at home alone with just the television for company, that he realizes it's been nearly a month since they've hung out.

He picks up the phone and dials the familiar number, but instead of the half-drunk "yeah?" he expects, he gets an out-of-service message.

"You're better off without him," Mike says later, when Nick tells him about it. "He's a loser."

~ * ~ * ~

Diving into the car, Nick tosses his mask and the shotgun into the back seat. The tires squeal as Mike floors it and then they're racing away from the bank, the sound of sirens faint in the distance. Mike's tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel like he can't keep still for the excitement.

"Let me see it," he demands, and Nick opens the bag to show the neatly banded stacks of cash. Mike grins and flings an arm around Nick's neck, tugging him close enough to kiss, one eye on the road.

Nick realizes he's grinning, too, his whole body singing from adrenaline. He slides one hand along Mike's thigh, teasing his way up to cup the hard curve of Mike's dick where it presses against the restraining denim. Shifting closer, Nick murmurs into Mike's ear: "I can't decide if I want to suck you or have you fuck me when we get home."

The car swerves a little and Mike licks his lips, groans out a heartfelt "fuck," and shifts in his seat.

The trip back to the apartment feels like an eternity; Mike goes exactly the speed limit and takes a pre-planned route that's both indirect and calculated not to draw attention to them. By the time they park, Nick's so hard and so desperate that he shoves the bag onto the floor and starts to fumble with Mike's zipper.

For a second Mike's helping, and then he's shaking his head, pushing Nick's hands away. "Jesus, no. Not here." His lips are parted and his breath is ragged. Nick knows it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge, to make him beg for Nick's mouth on his dick. Mike's right, though; they've gotten away with it so far, and it would suck if they got caught because someone called the cops on them for public indecency.

They make it up the stairs and into the apartment, but as soon as the door closes behind him Mike turns and pins Nick to it, his mouth hot and wet and his thigh pressing hard against Nick's aching dick. Nick drops the bag in favor of working on Mike's jeans again; this time he gets the button and zipper undone and then Mike is hot and leaking in his hand and he can't help the moan that escapes at the realization that Mike's been commando this whole time.

Nick relaxes, lets himself drop to his knees, and Mike backs up a little to give him room, bracing his hands on the door above Nick's head and looking down with a hungry expression. It doesn't take long before Mike's muttering curses and pleas interspersed with Nick's name and then coming hard, deep in Nick's throat.

Before Nick can finish undoing his own zipper so he can jerk off, Mike says, "Wait. I want you to fuck me," and the words alone are nearly enough to make Nick lose it. He takes it slow and easy, treating it like the gift he knows it is, and by the time he's done Mike is hard again and begging for his hand, and Nick is already planning their next job.

~ * ~ * ~

Flashes of red and blue lights fill the rear-view mirror and there are more ahead of them, on the far side of the bridge.

Nick looks over at Mike, who is pale and tense in the passenger seat, a flower of red blooming underneath the hand pressed shakily to his shoulder.

"You ever seen _Thelma and Louise_?" Nick asks, eyeing the guard rail to his left and flooring the accelerator.

**-=| end |=-**

**B.**

Mike makes a pretty good case for Miami, and it's not like Nick's got anyone in Toronto anyway so he agrees. When he sees Mike off at the airport, they don't kiss goodbye, don't even touch, but it's a near thing.

Nick gives notice at work, sells his furniture and loads the rest of his stuff up in the car, and then he starts the twenty-four-hour drive to a new life. He has second thoughts at the border, and third and fourth thoughts as he hits South Carolina and Georgia respectively, but by the time the Florida state line disappears from his rear-view mirror he's humming under his breath and kind of looking forward to the change.

He calls from a gas-station payphone and Mike's waiting for him when he finally pulls up, his grin as nervous as Nick's own.

"I thought maybe you'd changed your mind," he says as Nick slides out of the driver's seat and stretches.

**1.**

The music is too loud, and Nick feels distinctly out of place among the beautiful people of Miami, even wearing the outfit Mike bought him specifically so they could go clubbing. He's not even sure how Mike got them past the velvet rope; Crobar is packed and the drag queen at the door was turning away more people than she was letting in.

He's relaxing against the bar, beer in hand, when Mike leans in close. "Be right back," he says, jerking his head toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. Nick can barely hear him over the bass, but he gets the gesture and nods back.

He takes the opportunity to watch the bodies on the dance floor, not bothering to hide his appreciative expression. He's rarely seen so much tanned, sweaty skin in the same place, and some of it belongs to people whose faces he recognizes from film or television or CD covers. He lets himself make eye contact, lets himself flirt a little with people leaving the dance floor, but doesn't take it any further than flirting, and he's surprised when the tall Latino in the tight jeans actually looks disappointed at being turned down.

Nick's so distracted by the view and the flirting that it's nearly twenty minutes before he realizes that Mike should've been back already; even with a line, it doesn't take that long to take a leak.

There isn't a line for the bathroom, and Nick pushes the door open to find it surprisingly empty. The end stall is closed and over the muffled music Nick can hear the distinctive slap of flesh on flesh. His stomach twists, clenches, and he's got his hand on the door handle before he changes his mind, decides to wait and confront Mike.

It doesn't take long; the stall door swings open to reveal Mike's back. He makes a jerky motion that Nick can't place and, his voice rough with anger, says, "Fucking cocksucker," before turning around and stepping out of the stall. Behind him, Nick can see a guy slumped down on the floor between the toilet and the wall, bright red lines of blood trailing from his nose and mouth. Mike catches sight of Nick and grins, his eyes glittering like he's high on something, and Nick can't do anything but stare as Mike washes blood off his battered knuckles.

Slinging one arm around Nick's shoulders, Mike leans in close and bites his jaw before saying, "Let's go home, babe," and Nick can't feel anything but the cold wetness seeping into his shirt from where Mike's hand is resting.

~ * ~ * ~

He's standing on the balcony of their apartment, the oppressive combination of heat and humidity making him long for home, and why the fuck had he let Mike talk him into Miami in the first place? The only good thing about the whole fucking city was the abundance of tanned T&A in bikinis, and he can't even enjoy that because Mike has a freak-out any time he thinks Nick is even looking at a woman.

The glass door slides open and Mike steps through. It's like he's got radar that tells him if Nick even _thinks_ about pussy. He doesn't say anything, though, just comes over to the railing to stand beside Nick.

Nick takes a drag on his cigarette—Camel because you can't get Du Maurier in the U.S., which is just another reason he hates it here—and looks out to where the sun is setting over the ocean.

"I thought you were quitting." The words are quiet and emotionless, but Nick knows disapproval when he hears it, and he hears it from Mike pretty damned often lately. He should let it go, not worry about it, but he's already spoiling for a fight and if Mike wants to give him an excuse, he'll take it.

"No," he says, pausing for another long drag just because it'll piss Mike off. " _You_ said _you_ wanted me to quit."

Mike looks like he's going to say something, then he just turns and goes back inside, slamming the sliding door behind him. Nick grinds his cigarette out on the railing—something else he knows Mike hates—and follows him inside. He isn't quite across the threshold yet when the first blow snaps his head back and he stumbles backward into the railing. Mike is right there in his face, shoving and punching, until Nick hears a horrible, sickening grinding sound and the railing gives way behind him.

**-=| end |=-**

**2.**

It's been way too long since Nick's let someone fuck him, but Mike grins, sliding him one of those sideways looks that makes his breath catch, and says, "You trust me, don't you?"

He hisses at the burn, tries to flinch away, but Mike's hands are strong on his hips, holding him in place, and Mike's breath is hot on his neck. After a minute the burn fades into something like pleasure and Nick's pushing back, pushing _hard_ , and then they're not taking it slow anymore.

Afterward, Mike trails his fingers across Nick's back, down over his hip and up again. "I love your ass," he says softly. "You have the best ass in Miami, babe."

Nick's seen more perfect bodies in the month he's been in Miami than in the entire rest of his life, but he knows it's the thought that counts.

~ * ~ * ~

Mike gets up from the couch to answer the door, and for a minute Nick's still watching the game, but then Mike doesn't come back and the murmur of voices gets a little louder. He pushes off the couch and wanders casually into the foyer and toward the door, his heart already pounding because they don't get many visitors and any who stay longer than the time it takes to hand over cash and claim a large pepperoni and sausage pizza are usually bad news.

The guy standing in the doorway is either mob or a cop; Nick is guessing the latter because the guy's too Irish—red hair, pale skin—to be Miami mob. He's wearing a suit and has a pair of expensive sunglasses in one hand like he just took them off. He looks up when Nick rounds the corner, his pale blue gaze sharp, and Nick sees him take in the black eye and make an instantaneous judgment.

"I'm Horatio Caine," the guy says, holding a business card out for Nick to take. "I'm with the Miami crime lab."

Nick shoots a look at Mike, but he seems calm enough.

"This is Nick," Mike says casually. "He's my roommate." Caine doesn't look like he buys Mike's description of their relationship, but he doesn't say anything. Mike leans closer to Nick and says, mock-conspiratorially, "Lieutenant Caine here thinks I murdered my ex-girlfriend. Again."

For a second Nick's confused—how the hell do you murder someone twice?—and then Caine says, "This time it's not a case of mistaken identity; I have Julie Bryant's body in my morgue. It's only a matter of time until the evidence connects you to her murder."

"Yeah, good luck with that, Lieutenant." Mike smirks. He must see something in Nick's expression as the door closes behind Caine, because he puts one hand on Nick's hip and the other comes up to cup Nick's jaw. "You know I'm not like that, right?" he says, and Nick nods because it's true. They may fight, but Mike's not the kind of guy who'd kill someone in cold blood. Especially not someone he loved.

Nick debates for a second, then says, "Julie, huh? What's the deal with her?"

Mike laughs, but it's a cold and humorless sound. "It's nothing. We were supposed to go up to Niagara Falls together, but the night before the trip we had a fight. She walked out and I haven't seen her since. I went anyway—figured the plane tickets were paid for already, why not enjoy myself." Now he grins and pulls Nick to him, presses a kiss against Nick's mouth. "I'm glad I did."

~ * ~ * ~

They've been together for a year, and Nick's not counting but apparently Mike is because he comes home with a porn DVD— _I Dream of Jenna_ —and a bottle of really good wine.

His gaze doesn't leave the blonde with the fake tits the whole time Nick is sucking him off.

When Mike falls asleep afterward, Nick tosses his stuff into the back of his car and heads north on ninety-five. He doesn't leave a note.

**-=| END |=-**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [](http://cathexys.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cathexys**](http://cathexys.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://casspeach.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**casspeach**](http://casspeach.dreamwidth.org/) for beta reading, and to [](http://isis.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://isis.dreamwidth.org/)**isis** for running the fest.


End file.
